


The Apocalypse

by ShipperOfTheShips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, Mary didn't die in a fire, Not a zombie apocalypse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Sam is 12, puppy, they were a family of hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperOfTheShips/pseuds/ShipperOfTheShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sickness has spread throughout the world, killing every human in its path. Every human except one. A twelve year old boy named Sam Winchester.<br/>Sam travels throughout the nation in search of somebody -- anybody -- else.<br/>He can't be the only one. He just can't be.<br/>{I added chapter 3 on Oct. 28 2016 but the thing still says Sept. 1 2016 I swear it's new}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this because I really wanted to read an apocalypse themed spn fic but I couldn't really find one, so I decided to write it myself. Here goes.

May 13, 1995

“Sam, you have to go,” Mary pleaded with her son as tears leaked from her eyes and blood dribbled from her chin. “You have to go. There's no reason for you to stay here anymore. You need to leave. Take what you can and find some place else to stay.”

“But-- I can't-- Mom, please--” the boy sobbed, clinging to his mother’s hand. “Don't make me leave! I promised Dean. You can't make me leave you here alone. I was with Dean and I'm gonna stay with you.”

Mary tried to push him away, but her dying body was too weak and she choked on a sob. “I don't want you to see me die,” she whispered, her voice rasping as blood and bile filled her throat. She hacked and spat the foul liquid onto the floor. “You shouldn't have had to see any of this.” Sam wiped her mouth with a damp cloth. “You're not sick. You can make it, baby. You're so strong and so smart, I know you can make it out there. There has to be others who are immune, Sammy, and you can find them. You won't be alone forever, baby boy. But you must be careful, Sam. You know what's out there, and more importantly, you know how to fight it.”

She brought up a shaking hand to cup her son’s cheek. “Angels are watching over you, Sammy,” she whispered. Sam turned his head to press a kiss to her palm. “I love you, Mom,” he whispered. “I'll go, but not until…after. You deserve a hunter’s funeral.”

Another sob jerked Mary’s frail body as she closed her eyes. More tears fell down her sallow cheeks and she sucked in a rattling breath, “I don't think it'll be long now.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before taking his mom’s hand between both of his own. “I'm here, Momma,” he told her shakily, using the name he'd used when he was small. “I'm not gonna leave you. I promise.”

“I love you, Sammy,” she whispered.

“Love you too, Mom.”

As Sam held his momma’s hand to his lips, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he knew, without looking, that she was gone. Tears began to stream freely down his face as he clutched his mother’s limp hand briefly before carefully resting it next to her side. Unable to bring himself to look at her lax face, Sam went out into the hall to fetch a sheet to cover her lifeless body before snatching both his parents’ journals from her bedside table and methodically moving around the house to collect supplies. Sam forced himself to go through the mental checklist his father had taught his brother and him.

First, he went back to his own room to stuff his duffle bag full of clothes, his own journal, and all the books he could fit (“Books are never a bad idea, son,” John had told him. “Keep you company when you're on your own.”) Next, he slowly pushed open the door to his brother’s bedroom. Carefully avoiding the sheet-covered body lying on the bed, Sam moved through the room collecting Dean’s switchblade as well as his journal and brown leather jacket. With a sigh, Sam folded the jacket over his arm and left the room, closing the door with a soft click. Finally, Sam climbed down to the basement where the weapons were stored. He picked through the rack of firearms for a moment before a thought occurred to him.

John and Mary had been teaching him to drive ever since his twelfth birthday, but Dean had started teaching him in secret the year before. While he wouldn't have been able to get his license or even a permit for another four years, the Winchesters knew it would be an important skill in the event of a hunt-gone-wrong and nobody else would be able to drive. Sam silently thanked his family, as those driving lessons would come in handy.

Outside, Sam wondered how it was still so bright. The sun was shining, birds were singing, a light breeze ruffled his hair and dried the tear tracks on his cheeks. He felt as though the weather outside should reflect his emotions inside. With a shake of his head, Sam carried his green duffle bag down to the black Impala parked on the street and tossed it into the backseat before unlocking the trunk and checking the arsenal hidden in the tire well. He saw one can of salt, a box of ammunition per firearm, two machetes, three stakes, a crucifix, and several protective amulets. With a mental list rolling through his mind, Sam started making trips back and forth from the basement to the car and back again.

Once satisfied with the contents of the arsenal, Sam slammed the lid shut and made one last trip to the basement to collect his and Dean’s army cots that their dad had made them use during training. He dragged the first one up the stairs and stopped behind Dean’s bedroom door. He took a deep breath before turning the knob.

  
After several hours, Sam was soaked in sweat and he faced two funeral pyres made of firewood standing in his backyard. The one on the left held his mother’s body, the one on the right held his brother’s. From where he stood, he could still see the pile of ash from his father’s pyre. John had contracted the virus first and, when it killed him a week later, Mary, Dean, and Sam had put together a pyre for him and carried him to the yard. By that evening, two weeks prior, Dean had started coughing. Five days later he had died, lying on his bed while Sam--the only one who hadn't shown any symptoms--had tended to him. Mary was too weak to help Sam bring her son to his pyre. Sam couldn't help but think back to his last conversation with his brother.

_“Sammy,” Dean had ground out. “You gotta promise me. Don't leave Mom here by herself. I don't care if you have to leave me to rot here--”_

_“Dean!” Sam cried, “I wouldn't leave Mom. You know that. And you will not-- I'm not leaving you on this bed forever. I'll give you a hunter’s funeral. At least I will if I'm not dead by then. You and Mom both.”_

_Dean had turned his eyes to the ceiling. “You're immune,” he said, blood rolling from the corner of his mouth. “Haven't you noticed yet?”_

_“Immune?” How could that be? He was supposed to keep living after watching his family die?_

_“You just have to,” said Dean, as though he’d read Sam’s mind. “You gotta keep going, Sammy. For all of us. Dad would've wanted you to. Get our name in the history books. You gotta be Dorothy,” he tried to laugh, but only coughed and spat bile onto his chest. “You need to leave Kansas. Go gank some monsters for me, Sam. And here, I want you to have this.”_

_Sam watched as Dean pulled his 1911 Colt .45 from under his pillow. As Sam looked down at the gun in his hand, tears filled his eyes. If Dean was giving him his gun, then Dean was giving up. This weapon had been Dean’s most prized possession; not a day went by that the elder Winchester wasn’t sat at his desk cleaning and polishing the Colt, making sure it's ivory grip shone and the silver barrel’s engravings were gleaming._

_“But, Dean,” Sam whispered. “This is your favorite.”_

_Dean was silent for a moment, looking over at his little brother, before he spoke once more. “I love ya, Sammy.”_

_“Dean?” Sam gasped, hoping his brother would meet his eyes. He didn't move. “Dean!”_

  
Back in the present, Sam wiped the tears from his eyes before tossing salt over Mary and Dean’s bodies. He then swapped the spice for the bottle of lighter fluid and doused the wrappings and pyres of each of them. Sam finally lit a torch and picked up John’s journal to read:

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,  
et lux perpetua luceat eis.” Sam touched the torch to the bottoms of each pyre. “Requiescant in pace. Amen.”

Sam watched the tongues of flame wrap around the rest of his family, turning them to ash. As they burned, Sam forced himself to look back on all the good times. His first soccer match that Dean had skipped class to watch while their parents were out on a hunt. Mary singing to him when he was small. John taking him out to the firing range for the first time; even better, the first time he actually hit the center of a moving target. Sam could still see John’s proud grin and hear Dean’s over-excited cheers. A small chuckle escaped him as he remembered.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon by the time the fires became mere piles of embers and Sam went inside to find the small phials they usually used for salt or holy water. With three of the small glass containers marked with masking tape and a teaspoon, Sam returned to the backyard to gather their ashes. Approaching the dark pile that had once been his father, Sam dipped the spoon into the area that had been John’s chest and filled the first phial labeled “Dad”, corked it, and slipped it into his pocket. He followed the same steps with Mary and Dean’s ashes.

With a last look to each of his family members’ remains, Sam turned and went to spend his final night in his home lying in his bed, clutching a family photo, and sobbing into his pillow.

  
The following morning found Sam curled on his side, cradling a picture frame. As he woke, he could almost forget his family was dead; that he was the last person in Lawrence; maybe the last person in the world. Mary’s words came rushing back to him as he finally pried his eyes open. “There has to be others who are immune, Sammy, and you can find them. You won't be alone forever, baby boy.” With the hope of finding another person some time soon, Sam stood and pulled on a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel. Looking around as he tugged on his boots, Sam knew he would miss this place. Would miss home. His family.

Doing a final walk through, Sam realized he'd nearly forgotten some necessities. Toilet paper, for one, his toothbrush for another. At the front door, he decided he may as well take Dean and John’s boots as well. After all, his feet were bound to grow and both pairs still had a few years in them. Without thinking, he locked the door behind him before walking down to the Impala. He yanked open the driver’s door and plopped down behind the wheel. Before starting the car, Sam dug in his pocket for the phials and draped their cords around the rear view mirror.

“I miss you guys already,” he rasped.

Finally, Sam turned the key and began the long journey across the country with the hope of finding somebody -- anybody -- else.

For the next few weeks, with more courage and bravery than any twelve year old had any right to have, Sam scavenged his way through Kansas, breaking into empty homes to sleep for a night or two. In the morning, he would take all the bottled water and food that he could find and set out again.

Everywhere he went, there were rotting corpses lying in the streets or sitting in cars or on porches. It seemed as though some people had just kept going until they couldn't anymore. Sam had vomited upon seeing the bodies, half eaten by vultures and crows, on more than one occasion. Especially on his way from Lawrence where he passed several people he had known, each in varying stages of decay. It seemed he never stopped grieving until he made it to the sign at the edge of the state where he stared at it bitterly; eyes red and puffy, head and throat aching.

“Leaving Kansas,” it read. “Come Again.”

With a heavy sigh, Sam touched the phials swaying gently. “Here we go.” He turned the up the volume as AC/DC’s Highway to Hell began to play and headed north to South Dakota. The only place he knew to go first.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the first, but it's sort of a filler type thing. I'm planning a little something for Sam ;)

June 28, 1995

Sam woke in a strange bed for the eighth time this month. Before finding this house, however, all he had found before had been filled with the stench of death and he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't just sleep in the car. At least there, he would be close to home. And it wouldn't be the first time he'd slept there, sprawled across the backseat. There was the time he and Dean--

_No,_ he thought as he rubbed a hand over his face. _I'm not thinking about him right now. I have work to do._

After that, Sam shut his brain off and began his morning routine. First, he stretched and quickly completed his sets of pushups and situps before dressing in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt going out for his usual laps around the block. When he came back to his temporary residence, he brushed his teeth and stripped down to scrub the sweat and grime from his body using bottled water and a washcloth. Finally, he began picking through the house. It had belonged to the Johnson family Before, according to the stack of mail by the door. A postcard in the pile revealed that Mr. Johnson’s sister Patricia had been on vacation in Florida over a month ago. Sam briefly wondered if Florida had been spared and if ol’ Patty knew her family was dead. Dropping the overdue bills, Sam continued on through to the kitchen.

By the end of his search, Sam had unearthed a pantry full of food and enough cases of bottled water to keep him hydrated and clean for weeks. He was also lucky enough to find a gun safe loaded with a few things that could come in handy, depending on what he came across. The safe included a brand new lock-picking kit, a set of iron knuckledusters, several boxes of empty shotgun shells that he could fill with rock salt. Sam figured he’d better take it all even though, since leaving Kansas, he had only come across a three restless spirits, none of which had been hostile. They’d merely wanted their bodies tended to.

  
As Sam packed the last of the imperishable foods into the trunk of car, being sure the arsenal was still easily accessible, he heard something. A crying sound, as though a child or small animal was injured. Without a second thought, Sam drew his ivory-gripped pistol and headed toward the noise. He streaked across the road and down a side street, following the yelps. Soon he braced himself at the corner of a two story house and peeked around to the backyard. The sight he saw nearly sickened him.

At the far corner of the yard was a rusty metal tool shed with a pile of cinderblocks stacked in front of the door. As Sam watched, the doors shook and the yelping resumed. Sam brought his gun up and slowly stalked closer to the shed where he began hauling the heavy blocks away from the door. With the last one gone, the door swung open and out stumbled a grey and white Pitbull pup -- no older than a month or so. The small dog blinked blearily in the sudden sunlight before it saw Sam and hastily backed away. Sam quickly holstered his gun, knelt down, and gestured for the pup to come closer. Hesitantly, it came forward to sniff at the boy’s fingers before allowing Sam to scratch behind its ears. After a moment, the pup rolled onto its back for a long awaited bellyrub.

“Hey there, boy,” he said gently, his voice rough with disuse. “I bet you're hungry aren't you?”

Carefully, Sam lifted the young Pit into his arms and carried him back to the car where he sat him down in the still open trunk. Sam dug around in his store of canned foods until he found a tin of beef stew and a small styrofoam bowl.

“There ya go, pup,” he said, sliding the bowl to the dog which immediately began scarfing the cold food down. “If you're gonna roll with me, you'll need a name.”

After a moment of watching the pup eat, Sam decided on a name. “Padfoot.” The dog looked up at him questioningly. “Yeah, you look like a Padfoot.”

As Padfoot continued to devour the stew, Sam went around the car to check the tires and the engine. John and Dean had taught him everything there was to know about their beloved Impala and Sam would be damned if he didn't keep it in tip-top condition. A small bark brought Sam’s attention back the dog currently watching him over the edge of the trunk. He returned to Padfoot and lifted him from the hatch and sat him on the ground where the pup hopped around his ankles excitedly. Sam slammed the trunk closed and went around to open the driver’s door to allow the dog to scramble up onto the seat. As Sam started the engine, Padfoot crawled onto his lap and stood with his front paws on Sam’s shoulders to lick the boy’s face.

For the first time since his dad fell ill, Sam felt himself smile a real smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long omg. I had a terrible block and couldn't figure out what to do with this chapter. I'm still not 100% on it, but I needed to post something, so here it is. I'm sorry if it's terrible  
> -C

July 4, 1995

Sitting on the rooftop of the house in which he'd planned on sleeping in Boone County, Nebraska, Sam set off a handful of fireworks he’d taken from an abandoned stand while Padfoot lay at his feet. Thoughts of the Independence Day from two years ago had Sam's eyes welling. Dean had taken him out to a clear field and handed him a tube.

_"What am I supposed to do with this?" Sam asked._

_"It's a Roman Candle," Dean started, taking out a lighter. "You light this fuse and you hold it up and then--"_

_Right at that moment, luminescent balls shot from the end and erupted about twenty feet in the air. Sam shouted with excitement as another ball of light shot from the end. Dean lit his own fuse and his shots mingled in the air with Sam’s. The brothers had cheered and hollered until they were hoarse. By that point, the sun had begun to rise and they knew they'd better get going before they got into trouble._

Just then, Padfoot stood with his hackles raised, dragging Sam from his reverie. Sam whipped around to see a tall, flickering woman wearing a long black dress and a murderous expression. For a moment the woman just stared at Sam, and then her face contorted into a silent howl as she launched herself at him. Sam leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding the spirit’s attack. He quickly regained his footing and drew his pistol, knowing the iron bullets would only slow her down. The woman hovered inches above the ground as she watched the boy. Sam fired two rounds, forcing the woman to dematerialize before calling for Padfoot to come.

At the bottom of the stairs, the ghost was waiting but Sam was ready. He fired off another shot that shattered the window across from him. Sam grabbed Padfoot by the scruff of the neck and dropped him out onto the ground before launching himself out to land with a thud on the grass. Before the spirit could reappear, Sam scooped the pup into his arms and jumped into the Impala. As he started the engine, Sam saw the woman watching him from the broken window, a look of complete and utter loathing on her face.

Sam drove to the Boone County Library he'd passed on the way into town. He knew he'd always been the best for research in the family only after Mary so he figured he could work out who that woman was and where she was buried. _But_ , he thought as he looked up at the dark building, _That'll have to wait ‘til morning._ Without getting out of the car, Sam slipped onto the back seat to stretch out under Dean’s leather jacket while Padfoot made himself comfortable in the floor near Sam’s head.

  
Come morning, Sam woke with the sun shining in his eyes and the familiar feel in his gut of a regular hunt. His first real job on his own and he was determined to finish it right.

Sam leapt from the car and doled out breakfast for himself and Padfoot while the dog squatted in the overgrown lawn of the library. As he ate, Sam thought about all he knew of angry spirits. He knew that there was no reasoning with one, that was for sure. He knew that salting and burning the bones almost always took care of the problem, but there was always the slight chance that the spirit could have attached itself to some other object; something that was meaningful to the person in life. Sam figured that the best place to start would be the citizen directory for around the eighteen hundreds, judging by the style of clothing the ghost had worn. Padfoot licked his bowl clean just as Sam popped the last of the Nutri Grain bar into his mouth.

“C’mon, Pads,” he said with a pat to his thigh. As he let himself through the door, Sam clicked on his flashlight and lead the way behind the front desk where he found a list of rooms and what was beyond their doors. About halfway down the list, he found what he was looking for and took off up the set of carpeted stairs to find Room 21B.

Upon finding the correct room, Sam picked the lock and began his search for the history of that address. After only minutes of searching, a stack of three brown boxes caught his eye. Holding the flashlight between his cheek and shoulder, Sam knelt to skim through the contents before hauling the boxes out to the car where he could read them more closely. He wanted to know who’s ghost had tried to push him off a roof.

  
 _Well, that didn't take long,_ he thought as he straightened up on the hood of the Impala to read:

 _Helena Chapman_  
Born 12 February of 1786  
Died 19 August of 1834

_Miss Chapman’s body was discovered by her nephew, thirteen year old Nathaniel Chapman, in their home on Old Mill Road. Miss Chapman had been strangled to death by an unknown culprit. Law enforcement workers suspect the nephew may have been involved._

“Huh,” Sam said aloud. Padfoot looked up at him curiously. “No wonder she went after me.” He skimmed through the rest of the article until he found what he was looking for.

_Miss Chapman’s funeral will be held this twenty first day of August of 1834 before her body will be buried in St. Anthony’s Cemetery._

  
“Saint Anthony’s?” said Sam looking around at the signs along the road. “That's right down the road, Pads.”

Figuring he would save a little gas, Sam grabbed a tin of salt and a bottle of lighter fluid before slinging a shovel over his shoulder and heading off toward St. Anthony’s Cemetery two blocks away. Once there, Sam rooted around the office for the plot map and set out to find Helena Chapman’s grave.

  
Twenty minutes later, Sam stood before a weathered marker with Helena’s name etched into the stone. With a huff at the thought of digging up a grave on his own, Sam shoved the tip of his spade into the earth and began to dig.

As Sam dug, Padfoot ran circles around the other headstones and chased a squirrel for the better part of an hour. Just then, there was a dull thud as Sam’s shovel struck against the rotting pine box. With a deep breath, Sam began to clear the rest of the coffin before using the point of his spade to break through the old wood. He grimaced at the sight of the old bones lying before him. Padfoot came to watch as Sam scrambled from the hole to dump in a generous amount of salt and lighter fluid.

“Here goes,” he said as he struck a match. As he watched the grave fill with flames, he was brought back to that night over two months ago. His family’s bodies burning to cinders in their backyard. Sam’s stomach churned and he dropped to his knees as nausea overtook him.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sam struggled to his feet to return to the car with Padfoot trailing behind. 


End file.
